Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

  Each identical blond doll had her story, and her own unique love match to suit. The Barbies, though, were just the beginning of my affair with love. The next several years marked my fascination with cinema. It was the era of Grease and Xanadu—love that knows no bounds. While my friends enjoyed the films for their campy music, leg warmers, hot pants, and synchronized dance sequences, I held them close to my heart for a very distinct reason. I’d watch them over and over to learn exactly what the sort of man you could fall in love with would be like.

  From Danny Zuko, I learned to covet danger, good looks, dark hair and leather jackets. I took note of the fact that a great guy is one who’s not easy to attain. It would be difficult to make it work with The One—but the work was worth it if you’d get to fall in love on a carnival ride and have the whole school waving their thumbs and singing about it.

  From Xanadu, I’d garnered that you’d be an inspiration to the one who really loved you. They couldn’t imagine life without you and they wouldn’t have any trouble conveying that to you. He would have to be creative and talented, sensitive and open to change.

  Books only increased my research cannon. The leading man was now the captain of the football team. It might take him a while to figure it out, but he’d ask you to the prom even if his friends disagreed—especially if his friends disagreed. He’d defy his parents to steal a moment with you and his kiss would send electricity coursing through your veins. He would cherish every inch of your body, and literally tremble when the opportunity to touch it presented itself. If he’d lost you somehow, he’d devote years to the challenge of getting you back, or die trying. He’d become a successful, wealthy world traveler, and he’d sit patiently while you shopped, had your hair colored. He’d eagerly participate in frivolous escapades, for a laugh have a Cracker Jack ring engraved at Tiffany’s. He’d gladly leave his bride at the altar for you, and given the choice, would throw his career into the trash just to have one minute alone with you.

  Fast-forward to my mid-twenties. By then, Ken dolls, movies, and novels were augmented by another litmus test—the real test—actual men. And none of those men ever broke my heart. I never gave them the chance. No matter how sweet the sentimental deed (an e-mail with the words “I’m thinking of you,” an all-nighter dedicated to helping me to edit an article), he couldn’t stand up to the checklist I’d compiled through my research. But he’s not the best kisser. But he didn’t ever whisk me away to the Caribbean. But why didn’t he want to have sex every night? But what kind of a stick-in-the-mud would tell me to put on something less revealing? And after it became clear that he would never tick those boxes, I would believe I had no choice but to put the kibosh on the relationship. It would be wrong to waste anyone’s time. I had to find The One. And apparently, he wasn’t it.

  After the fact, I’d pass a coffee shop where we had laughed on a Sunday, seen a movie we’d both hated and made fun of for days, or come across someone wearing a Yankees cap as ripped and torn and aged as his and I’d feel a loss. And sometimes I’d miss him so much that I would romanticize our relationship in my mind. Only now I’d fill in the checklist boxes by imagining what a rekindling might be like—-in my script, he would do all of those things this time. And when we would reunite, and he failed, once again, to meet my expectations, I’d be devastated all over.

  So, there I was, just two months ago, with a string of failed relationships hogging up my memory bank and a freelance writing career that didn’t offer much in the way of male contact, when I woke one day with what I fancied to be a marvelous idea. What if I increased the chances of meeting Mr. Right by taking a position in a male-dominated industry? Increasing the odds must increase the likelihood that I’ll bump into him, right? (Well, we’ll get to that later.)

  But merely changing geography would have been too easy. I had to complicate matters by bringing my career into the picture. I pitched the idea to this very magazine, one I’d dreamed of writing for since I could read the cover line, “Your Sexiest Hair Ever.” We all chat about how difficult it is to meet men in the magazine business, don’t we? Don’t others always advise us to “get out more?” Isn’t work always cited as a top place to meet Mr. Right? Well, this magazine seemed to think so. And so, under assignment to meet Mr. Right in two months and describe the victorious coup in three thousand words, I swapped my writer’s notebook and my late mornings in pajamas for an attaché case, a camel-colored overcoat, and one very official-looking name badge—with the sole purpose of finding The One. This might sound extreme, but you know that saying about desperate times and desperate measures. Funny enough, at the time, it didn’t seem so crazy.

  In fact, after viewing Pretty Woman, Cinderella, Romeo and Juliet, and reading Bridget Jones ‘s Diary and Confessions of a Shopaholic, it seemed the ridiculous was actually a crucial part of finding The One—a precursor even. How could I fail? Walking through the doors of my new office on that first day, it didn’t seem there was a chance of anything but success. A description of the scores and scores of men (tall, short, bespectacled, with long hair, with short hair) seemed to require an excess of expletives to convey to my friends. Out of the thousands that walked past me, rode in the elevator with me, tonged through the salad bar across from me, one of them had to be The One.

  During my first few days I diligently noted the men I came into contact with, and which I thought might fit my profile. I did my part. I primped, wore my best shoes, had my hair done, floated witty comments, even read the financial pages (and that was some feat, let me tell you). One day, I met a nice enough guy who rode into the copy room like a knight in shining amour to save me from the big bad Cannon color copy machine. Everything seemed to be coming together perfectly. Like a movie. Like a book. Like I’d always imagined it would.

  And then, like any good story, conflict entered my life. Let’s call the conflict Liam. The conflict had strikingly good looks, a winning smile, and above all else, a way that could romance even the starchiest skeptic. To make the whole scenario even more complicated and star-crossed (oh, the romance!), the conflict did not work at my office, which made him off limits according to my assignment. I would not, could not be with him!

  Oh, but I would and I could and boy did I. All the while I was entranced by my forbidden, romantic (and not too bad in the bedroom) conflict, I was ticking off little boxes on my list of qualifications for The One--at this point, my life’s work. Great in bed—check; assertive—check: smart—check; sparkling conversationalist—check; master of anticipation—check. Things only went from bad to awful when Mr. Conflict—despite all his seeming perfection—his hysterical personality; his insatiable desire to perform all manner of wicked deeds with me, on me, above me, below me—turned out, in the end, to be a fraud.

  And the fraud, when brought to light, blamed me.

  He—the liar, the cheater, the creator of a false identity—blamed me.

  The audacity.

  The sheer ridiculousness.

  The truth.

  It was true I’d been caught in a web of my own weaving. Before we’d kissed, before we’d even had our first date, I’d dreamed him into my own reality. I’d consulted the checklist! I knew what I wanted, and I knew he was it. Only he wasn’t. But that’s because nobody in the entire world could be it. It only exists in my dusty old Barbie doll case, tucked in my mother’s attic; It exists in my boxes of films and books; It exists in those days in Central Park when I’d muse about what each coupled man was to his counterpart woman. The only place It doesn’t exist is in reality.

  And this was a place, through my own romantic and ignorant imaginings, that I’d managed to put off a visit to thus far. The landing was bumpy. Call in the ground crew! But it had to happen sooner or later. And the only thing my speed dating experiment had done was purchase me an express ticket.

  But once you’ve mourned the passing of The One, whom you’ve created and kept as a companion since the days of tricycles, through the dateless wedding receptions, beside you o
n yet another HBO Saturday night, you come to realize that his death is really the best thing that could have happened. Now you’ve got the opportunity to live, to see each man you encounter for his own unique wonders, which needn’t fit into any confining mold. And while I may not have found The One at Mankind, Inc., I have found something far more important. I have found the wisdom to love. So now, along with all those hopeless romantics out there, I remove my mourning veil and look forward to a love far better than any on the silver screen—a love that’s real.

  I’m happy with the piece, but I can’t help but wonder what’s missing. That awful word keeps bobbing along my consciousness—fate. Perhaps if, after I’d learned the error of my ways, I still managed to meet someone wonderful, whom I could fall in love with, I might see how fate plays a role. But currently, fate remains a separate concept, weeping with words I used to melt at the sound of, like “predestined” and “meant to be.” And as much as I would like to believe I could return to that type of sensibility and indulge my yen for such frivolities, I now see the danger of that thinking. I’m not going back there for anything.

  So, I e-mail the story to Joanne for feedback, and I attach a file I’d typed up of Diary of a Working Girl. I want her to see where I’m coming from, the daily ins and outs, even though I imagine it’s too long for her to read.

  I ask in big bold letters: Do you believe in fate?

  If anyone can look at this rationally it’s Joanne. She might as well have invented the word.

  Impatient for her reply, at the ten-minute mark I resist the urge to ring her. At fifteen, I dial, shaky. I feel as if my entire existence is dependent upon whether or not Joanne agrees with my point of view, something that—to date—has never happened. Even more importantly, I want to know whether she believes in fate.

  “I’m not finished yet. Chill out. I’ll call you back. Breathe.”

  I haven’t even said hello.

  After she hangs up, I attempt to while away the time checking my horoscope online.

  With Venus in your house, love is on the way. Don’t forget to look where you least expect it. But remember, looking alone won’t bring your special someone to you. You have to trust in that wonder of all wonders—fate.

  “Ha!” I say out loud to no one in particular.

  I glance at the stuffed bear on my bed.

  “No one believes that crap, right?” I ask Teddy, caressing his torn ear, his on-by-a-thread eye. “Do you?”

  He doesn’t say a word. I throw him on my bed, when the mismatched direction of his eyes starts to freak me out.

  Defeated, I throw myself onto the bed next to him. I need to remember it’s what’s inside that counts.

  “Oh, Teddy,” I say, “Is there such a thing as fate? Can I allow myself a touch of mysticism if I ever hope to steer clear of my old, silly ways?”

  I’m staring at the ceiling, looking for answers, seeing only a cluster of hairline cracks in the plaster, when my eyelids droop. An exaggerated yawn escapes and I decide it’s time for a nap. It’s been two months, roughly—my time at Smith Barney—since I’ve had the freedom. I always had mixed feelings about them before. On the one hand, you feel guilty for sleeping when you should be working. But on the other, when you wake, refreshed, sometimes the answer to your quandary is right there.

  So with that four-letter word, FATE, lying heavy on my mind, I bury myself in a mountain of pillows, turn down the blanket, and curl into fetal. As my breathing slows, I take comfort in the fact that I am falling heavily into slumber.

  Nineteen

  One Fateful Day

  Although it’s only five o’clock when I lie down, I sleep the whole night through. I wake, gripping Teddy in a headlock. Out the window, the sun has barely had a chance to light the sky. It looks like “naps” are not something I’m capable of handling anymore. This was more of a vacation, only without actually going anywhere, no tan to speak of, but still, a wicked case of jet lag.

  At the mirror, I let out the sort of yawn that only single women can partake in—a scream really, my mouth so wide I can see every filling. It’s not the polite covered mouth variety you’d attempt to stifle in front of a man. And as I’m staring at my mouth in amazement—how many fillings do I have anyway?—I begin to recall my dreams.

  In one rapid, illogical sequence, I was Sleeping Beauty, my hair not a mass of human hair, made up of separate strands, but instead a lump of one-dimensional orange, colored in with a marker and contained by a heavy black border line. I’m lying in a bed, locked in that infamous dark tower, clasping a flower arrangement—three white lilies—when the plump, jocular fairy godmother of Cinderella fame taps my shoulder, interrupting my sleeping spell.

  I turn to her and ask, “Are you Fate?”

  She looks at me and smiles, waving a glowing Fourth of July sparkler in the air, tracing loops and spirals with each movement, ignoring me, even when I throw the flowers onto the stone floor and stomp on them.

  Finally she says, “Aren’t those sparklers so much fun? Here, give one a whirl.”

  She lights and hands another to me, which I inspect, thinking how fitting it is that when I finally get a fairy godmother it turns out she’s a wacko. She’s trying to write something in the air with her sparklers, but the blaze fades away before I can make out the letters.

  Finally, I rip them from her hands and say, “Listen. I haven’t got all the time in the world here. Would you mind answering my question already? Jeez.”

  The fairy godmother looks like she’s about to sock me one, which isn’t very fair considering it’s my dream. She composes herself, lights another sparkler, this time holding it still, and takes on a new demeanor.

  “I indeed am Fate, my dearie. And I’m here to tell you that you have really been pissing me off. I mean, I’ve been with you your entire lifetime, and now you just up and desert me because of one stupid British guy! Whatever happened to devotion? Do you remember that rainy day on your family trip to Massachusetts, summer 1980, under the palace you’d constructed from sheets and two wing chairs? And don’t forget your first kiss with Christopher Taminsky; if I hadn’t brought you tumbling off of your bike and onto his driveway, would you have that memory now? It is true that sometimes you do go off the deep end. Believe me, we fairy godmothers have had many a laugh over you, but that doesn’t mean you should shut me out for good. Stay true to yourself, okay? Oh, and here’s another sparkler for the road. Aren’t they just a hoot?”

  She floats up and starts to fade.

  “But—” I try to grab her but it’s too late. She disappears.

  “Thanks for the help,” I say, and toss the sparkler on the ground. “And this stupid sparkler is not so much of a hoot actually.”

  If that truly was my fate I’d dreamed up, I may be in some serious trouble. You may not take much stock in dreams, but I do. I dreamed I would be a writer all the time when I was a little girl, and here I am. I even dreamed which college I would attend, and that’s where I wound up. Dreams for me are very, very important—just as important as my horoscope. Or maybe more. No less. Okay, equal then. So it would have been nice if the one that contained the answer to my question seemed a little bit, what’s the word? Sane.

  I remember another dream scene. Those little mice and birds from Cinderella scurrying about a human form—pinning a shoulder here, an inseam there. This form is not me. It is male. It is Tom. He’s wearing that Calvin Klein suit and flashing the half-smile.

  When the diminutive tailors are through with their alterations, he is guiding them along a tour of his office building. Nobody bats an eye at a gaggle of animated characters walking the halls of the Traveler’s Building.

  At the elevator, he points to the red and white buttons and saying, “Yes, red is up.”

  In the cafeteria, he scoops vegetables from silver bins and explains, “This is the lettuce, and this is the carrot, and here are the tomatoes.”

  The mice and birds elbow each other and belly-laugh. One bluebird attempts
to flirt by singing a sweet song and nestling into Tom’s neck. Next Tom is holding a copy of the telephone presentation in one hand and hammering a hook into my wall, where I’d always meant for my Vogue column to be hung. When he’s fixed the silver piece onto the wall he stands back and says, “Well done, Ab Fab, well done.”

  I look at that still empty space on the wall now, awake, thinking how stupid I have been all of these years to keep pursuing these dreams of being a journalist, of meeting my M&M. Is it really worth it if every little success is so hard won? The article, I think, is something to be proud of, but at what price? And why the hell did I decide to heap both of those challenges into the same boat? If I hadn’t, perhaps I’d still be in possession of at least one triumph.

  But I’m distracted. Why, in my dream, was Tom hanging that presentation in my spot of honor? Is it possible Tom may have found his way into my heart? Is it possible that he is (dare I use the word) my M&M?

  From habit, I consult the old checklist. I know, I know. I’m like a sugar addict—just one more time, I swear!

  I just spent an entire weekend growing up and realizing I’m irrational and that love is nothing I thought it was and now I’m right back where I started. But old habits are hard to break. Besides, I was probably overreacting. I was upset. Hurt. Angry. But that was with Liam. Surely Tom is nothing like Liam.